


i'd love to be a wild animal with an instinct for survival.

by warfare



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 16:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warfare/pseuds/warfare
Summary: It’s hot in this practice room, Makoto thinks. That should really be a given - there’s no reason this room would be air conditioned, after all, and it’s still early in the fall, too early to expect the late summer heat to have broken. It’s hot, Makoto thinks anyway, uselessly, and shudders when Izumi’s breath huffs warm and ticklish past his ear.(Izumi blows Makoto in an empty practice room, that's it, that's the fic)





	i'd love to be a wild animal with an instinct for survival.

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in some vague timeframe between Starmine and Judgement. Izumi is Izumi and lack of enthusiastic consent is dubcon, so please keep that in mind. I never write PWP but I guess this is the contribution I had to make to Ensemble Stars.

It’s hot in this practice room, Makoto thinks. That should really be a given - there’s no reason this room would be air conditioned, after all, and it’s still early in the fall, too early to expect the late summer heat to have broken. It’s hot, Makoto thinks anyway, uselessly, and shudders when Izumi’s breath huffs warm and ticklish past his ear.

Makoto really does seem to just _find_ himself in situations with worrying frequency. Like that time with DDD when he was kidnapped. Or that time during the lead-up to the Duel event, when he got roped into modeling in the Knights’ uniform. Or when he and the rest of Trickstar almost got the transfer student tased on her first day, or whatever. He knows logically that even the most seemingly inexplicable series of events has to have an order to it, a process that explains everything in a satisfying way if only you can track it. Honestly, though, he’s always been the type to go with the flow. Maybe it’s because of that, but in the heat of the moment he always does seem to be surprised by what happens to him. 

The point is, if pressed he can vaguely remember the steps that got him here. The transfer student saying that Izumi-san had something to talk to him about, that it was important, that he should at least hear him out. The way her eyebrows came together, mouth settling into a determined line. She’s really cute, even in retrospect. He figures it’s about fifty-fifty whether she genuinely wants for them – for him and Izumi-san, or maybe for Trickstar and Knights – to get along better, or if she has some sort of plan she just isn’t letting him in on yet. He remembers looking down at her hand pulling gently on his sleeve, insistent, grip strong in a way that surprises him. Girls’ hands are so small; the transfer student’s fingers are long but delicate. Makoto had thought about what it would like to slot them through his own and realized he didn’t care if she was planning something.

He can feel the edge of the desk behind him, pushed up against the backs of his upper thighs. It reminds him that no matter how hard he attempts to mentally escape his own situation there’s nowhere for him to back away to, physically speaking. His hands scrabble for purchase on the flat surface behind him, trying desperately to steady himself without grabbing at Izumi. He could probably lift himself up onto the desk, he figures, try to get away that way, but he can’t help thinking that might be even more dangerous than the situation he’s currently in.

In retrospect, he probably should have asked the transfer student at least a few more questions. Or at least asked for a chaperone. For all the good that would have done him anyway.

Izumi huffs softly, as if he can tell somehow that Makoto is considering escape, and pursues, pins Makoto’s hip with one hand and Makoto's wrist with the other. Izumi briefly pulls his face back away from the shell of Makoto’s ear, as if to get a better look at his expression. Makoto only has the leisure of a few brief seconds to ponder stupid, pointless stuff like how hot Izumi’s breath is, or how surprisingly big his hands are, before Izumi smiles, affectionate without kindness, and brings his thigh up between Makoto’s legs.

Makoto claws helplessly at the desk behind him, instantly seized with the conviction that his knees are going to give out beneath him. The truth is he probably couldn’t fall if he tried, not with the way Izumi’s hand is gripping his waist, thumb digging painfully into his hipbone. If Makoto were to slide down in this moment he knows that it would only increase the friction of Izumi’s leg grinding into his dick, and somehow it’s that thought that causes his breath to hitch in his throat.

Izumi reacts to the sound, leans back in. His hair tickles Makoto’s cheek. Makoto can smell his shampoo: a light floral scent. It’s probably expensive. Izumi’s breath on his neck is hot, and just as Makoto is wondering whether Izumi isn’t planning on kissing him, Izumi shifts his thigh in a tight circle, grinds experimentally into him.

Makoto manages somehow to choke most of his moan back, but the result is a high-pitched whine that he regrets the moment he hears it. Even through his own humiliation he can feel Izumi’s smile grow against his throat.

“Yuu-kun, that’s so cute.”

Izumi backs off just a bit. For a brief second Makoto wonders if even Izumi is capable of mercy, but then the older boy reaches out, runs the back of his knuckles gently but insistently against Makoto’s dick, half-hard in his pants. The touch is feather-light, just enough to be frustrating, and Makoto can hear his own breathing pick up pace before he even registers that it’s happening.

“I haven’t even done anything, and you’re already like this. You must have been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

Izumi is half-panting. Makoto makes the mistake of looking up, sees the way Izumi is looking directly at him, warm and hazy and more than a little terrifying. He averts his gaze, but Izumi grabs at his chin, directs his face back upward with a little more force than is strictly necessary.

“Don’t be embarrassed. I’m the same, you know?” Izumi stutters his hips forward purposefully, angles his pelvis so his erection slides up into the crease of Makoto’s hip. He’s incredibly hard, enough that it surprises Makoto. “See?”

And then everything happens all at once. Izumi grabs at Makoto’s hips, pulls him forward, grinding them together. Makoto isn’t ready for it - for any of it - but he’s surprised by the way his breath hitches when Izumi’s pupils blow wide, rolling his hips against Makoto, setting into a pace so steady it might almost be described as lazy if they weren’t rutting against each other in an empty practice room in the middle of the afternoon. It’s filthy, Makoto thinks. All of it: the heat of Izumi’s breath on his throat, the way the fabric of Izumi’s pants distends every time he drags slowly forward, tight against his dick. The filthiest thing, though, is the series of small, desperate noises Makoto can hear escaping his own mouth. He barely realizes that he’s reached out and grabbed onto Izumi, fingers clutching at his shirt. For a few minutes there’s nothing but this - Izumi’s hands grabbing at the curve of his ass, the cant of Izumi’s hips into his, Izumi’s cock dragging along Makoto’s.

It’s too hot for this. Makoto’s glasses are fogging up. They didn’t even lock the door; anyone could come in. It’s still light out, Makoto mentally protests, and tries not to look at the way Izumi is staring fixedly down at where they’re sliding together, face flushed. Instead he shoves his face into Izumi’s neck, tries not to imagine what he must look like. 

It’s too much, but it also isn’t enough. He needs something else, _anything_ else – needs Izumi to pick up the pace, or go harder, or, god, to take his dick out of his pants and touch him directly, _something_ – and in spite of himself, Makoto leans back, chokes out,

“Izumi-san.”

 

Izumi looks up at him through long lashes, expression briefly surprised in a way that Makoto’s never seen before. And then he smiles with all of his teeth, and Makoto can read the threat in the expression.

“Not enough? Yuu-kun, you’re so needy.” Izumi takes a step back, which Makoto is pretty sure is what he should have wanted, but he feels the absence of pressure keenly, makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “Okay, okay,” Izumi laughs, unkind, and his hands trail down his hips, to his legs. When Makoto goes completely still Izumi huffs through his nose and presses his thumb inside of Makoto’s thigh tight enough to bruise. “Don’t worry. I’m not a monster.” His grin, dark and hungry, indicates otherwise. His voice is quiet, deeper than usual. Dangerous, Makoto thinks, and his stomach does a somersault. “As a special favor, big brother’ll help you out.”

Makoto has no idea what’s coming next, but he knows it’s nothing good; he braces himself against the desk with one hand, brings the other up to his face, putting a barrier between himself and Izumi. “Izumi-san,” he hates how breathy his voice sounds, like he’s been practicing for hours. He knows he needs to say something, to protest. “I don’t want–”

Izumi doesn’t give him the chance to tell him what he doesn’t want. He drops to his knees in front of Makoto, looks up at him through the thick fringe of his bangs, face flushed, then brings his gaze back down to his dick. _Erotic_ , Makoto thinks accidentally, and suddenly he’s conscious of how much he’s straining against his pants. Too erotic for a high schooler. Maybe this is something Izumi learned from modeling – but if that’s the case, it certainly isn’t anything Makoto was taught. Maybe he would have picked this up if he’d stuck with modeling longer, or maybe this is something Izumi learned from something else. 

Some _body_ else. 

Makoto swallows miserably, trying to distract himself from the pressing question of who could possibly have taught Izumi this kind of thing. Izumi, for his part, has reached up and worked Makoto’s belt open. He has Makoto’s pants unzipped and around his ankles in a matter of seconds, and Makoto hates how his heart clenches when he sees how easily this all seems to come to Izumi. Like it’s not a big deal.

Izumi makes a contented sound and brings the pad of his thumb up to brush against the tip of Makoto’s cock, hard against his underwear. _He hasn’t even kissed me,_ Makoto thinks again, crazily, and then Izumi flicks his gaze back up to Makoto and mouths at the outline of his dick, breath warm even through the fabric. He moves even closer, presses his mouth against the base of Makoto’s cock, tongue twitching flat against the cotton of Makoto’s underwear. He seems to notice when Makoto freezes, eyes slammed shut, because he stops, too, presses his cheek into the crease of Makoto’s hip, almost like he’s giving him a moment to adjust. After a second – not quite long enough for Makoto to come to his senses and push him off – Izumi brings his hands gently up the backs of Makoto’s thighs.

“Yuu-kun, it’s all right, so calm down,” Izumi murmurs quietly, and for the first time Makoto doesn’t feel any threat in the edge of his voice. It’s the same tone he’d used when they were children, whenever everything would become too much for Makoto. “I love you, you know, so you don’t need to worry about anything.” His fingers trace the edges of Makoto’s boxer briefs, rubbing comforting circles into his upper thighs. His words feel hot on Makoto’s dick. Makoto can’t think. He can barely breathe. When Izumi reaches up and pulls his underwear down all Makoto can manage is to bring his hands up to his mouth, muffling his own groan.

For a moment everything stops, and Makoto cracks one eye open, looking down to see what’s happened, if Izumi has finally decided that this is a bad idea, that he’s going to leave Makoto alone after all. He’s not sure if the idea has him relieved or disappointed. Either way, he isn’t prepared for the look Izumi is giving him, kneeling in front of him as if he’s pledging fealty. Izumi is looking at him like he’s trying to find something he lost; his expression is full of love, and loneliness, and something that Makoto is deeply familiar with: regret.

He can’t help wondering who it is that Izumi’s lost – if it’s Makoto, or someone else.

“You don’t need to do anything,” Izumi sighs, and then reaches up and tucks a bit of hair behind his ear, artfully, “so just put up with it for a minute.” And then Izumi’s parting his lips, taking the head of Makoto’s dick into his mouth, and Makoto doesn’t have the leisure of thinking about anything else anymore.

Izumi’s mouth is warm and wet, watering around Makoto’s cock. His eyelashes cast shadows against the sharp cut of his cheekbones. He takes Makoto in for a minute, then shifts his focus to just the tip, flicking his tongue against the slit, and Makoto feels himself scrambling for purchase on the desk behind him. Izumi changes his angle, licking a wet stripe across the base of his dick. When he takes one of Makoto’s balls in his mouth and sucks gently, jerking him off with slow motions, Makoto feels like he might die from embarrassment and arousal. His dick jerks in Izumi’s hand, and he imagines that he can feel Izumi’s smile in the kiss that he presses into the side of Makoto’s dick.

Perhaps because Makoto is getting noticeably more and more desperate, Izumi begins to move in earnest; he drags the flat of his tongue in small circles under Makoto’s cockhead, then begins to bob his head up and down on Makoto’s dick, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks Makoto off with enthusiasm. 

Makoto jerks his hips forward a bit when the flat of Izumi’s tongue drags up his length and flutters around the head of his dick, and Izumi chokes ungracefully. It shatters the moment; where previously Makoto had been unable to think about the situation they’re in, about Izumi-san blowing him, about anything, he’s suddenly overwhelmed with worry. Izumi pulls back, coughing, and even around his humiliation Makoto can’t help noticing how red Izumi's lips have gotten, slick with drool and Makoto’s precome.

Makoto starts to apologize, but Izumi shakes his head, wordlessly presses him back against the desk and taking Makoto’s dick back into his mouth. He goes all the way down, unprompted; at first it seems like something Izumi is used to doing, but then he feels Izumi breathing hard through his nose, his throat fluttering uncomfortably around Makoto’s cock, and the unplaceable misery curling through Makoto’s stomach resolves itself a bit. And then, incredibly, Izumi reaches up and takes Makoto’s hands from the desk, moving them to Izumi’s head. The look he gives Makoto is incredible: desperate and inviting all at once, his lips stretched wide over Makoto’s dick. Makoto is certain that he could forget every other thing that’s happened in his life but he’ll never forget this image.

Makoto takes the invitation, unsure, and thrusts experimentally into Izumi’s mouth. He hits the back of Izumi’s throat, and Izumi makes a small choking noise, but when Makoto pulls back, Izumi _moans_ , a wanton, filthy sound that Makoto could never even have imagined before today. Makoto fists his hands into Izumi’s hair and starts fucking into his mouth, shallow at first, then at a more punishing pace as he gets closer and closer to the edge.

The _sounds_ that are coming from Izumi – from his mouth, from the way he groans around Makoto’s dick – are incredible. Under normal circumstances, Makoto is certain he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it: about why Izumi-san is doing this, and why he’s so good at it, and what he’s seeking punishment for. But now he can’t think about anything other than how hot Izumi-san's mouth is, how skilled his tongue is, the little slurping noises he makes whenever Makoto uses a little more force than necessary.

He feels something desperate pooling in the pit of his stomach, warning. He hisses, “Izumi-san, I’m–” and then suddenly Izumi pushes himself all the way down one more time, throat constricting wildly. Makoto’s hand fists cruelly in Izumi’s hair as he comes down his throat, all of his muscles clenching and unclenching as he somehow manages to stifle a yell. Izumi swallows a few times around his dick, then pulls back, almost lazily. Some come dribbles down Makoto’s cock, and Izumi coughs daintily, pulls his sleeve up before he wipes his chin off with the back of his hand, face flushed and breathing heavily.

Distantly, Makoto realizes – Izumi-san hasn’t – and then he looks down, and sees that Izumi’s belt is undone, his pants and underwear pushed down below his hips. His come is splattered messily all over the ground. Somehow he managed to miss Makoto’s shoes. It’s at the realization that Izumi frantically jerked himself off while Makoto was fucking his face that Makoto’s knees finally give out, and he collapses onto the floor. Izumi leans over and catches him, maneuvering him into a nearby chair.

While Makoto is still reeling, Izumi, businesslike, begins rifling through his bag and goes to work cleaning up the mess they’ve made; within a matter of minutes the floor is wiped down and Izumi’s face is clean. He straightens them both out; he helps Makoto with his pants and fixes his tie. When Izumi reaches over to fasten Makoto’s belt buckle Makoto realizes they still haven’t kissed, and he tilts his face up, apprehensive.

The look Izumi gives him is shockingly similar to the one he’d given him right before he blew him – full of adoration, and a loneliness that Makoto can’t quite place.

“Oh, Yuu-kun, you don’t have to do that.” Izumi’s voice isn’t as syrupy as usual; it sounds abused in a way that makes Makoto remember why. Makoto wants to protest that he doesn’t mind, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to say it persuasively. Izumi kneels in front of him again, looks up at him and takes his hand. His thumb traces comforting circles into Makoto’s palm, and Makoto remembers how Izumi-san used to be, before Makoto had come to Yumenosaki. “I love you, Yuu-kun. Just remember that. I might do things you hate, sometimes, but I’d never do anything to hurt you.” He takes a deep breath, and somehow Makoto feels like Izumi isn’t even looking at him anymore. “I’ll take care of you, no matter what. I won’t let anything bad happen. I promise.”

There’s a long, quiet moment, and Makoto has never felt so much like he wants to run away. 

Izumi stands up, suddenly, as if a switch has been flipped.

“Make sure you open the windows, Yuu-kun. I’ll leave first. I’m sure those kids in Trickstar are looking for you.” He sighs dramatically, voice cloying. “If you’d just joined Knights this wouldn’t be a problem. But I suppose we can’t have everything we want, can we?”

Izumi smiles, a huge, convincing, idol’s smile thrown over his shoulder. Makoto knows it’s fake and he hates it.

“Bye-bye, Yuu-kun. Thanks for spending time with me this afternoon; I’ll see you again soon, okay?”


End file.
